


such assistance becomes a burden

by provocation



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Anxiety, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Polyamory, just. Chrom/a ton of men., slice of life-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23274427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Chrom has anxiety and repressed feelings. He deals with both of them, and his friends help.(This is a Christmas-turned-birthday present forsludgeraptor!)
Relationships: Chrom/Frederick (Fire Emblem), Chrom/Frederick/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Chrom/Guire | Gaius, Chrom/Lon'qu (Fire Emblem), Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Chrom/Riviera | Libra, Chrom/Sort | Stahl, Frederick/Guire | Gaius, Frederick/Henry (Fire Emblem), Frederick/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, Soiree | Sully/Sumia, Sort | Stahl/Wyck | Vaike
Comments: 2
Kudos: 24





	such assistance becomes a burden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sludgeraptor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sludgeraptor/gifts).



> Hi, this is my first fic for Awakening and it's long overdue! I mostly just wanted to write Chrom getting to deal with his stuff, and being so incredibly gay for everyone around him. The title is from Frederick and Chrom's supports. Partial inspiration for one of the scenes was taken from the Chrom/Gaius story '[barlights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514299)' by my friend who got me into Fire Emblem. Coincidentally, this story is a birthday present for them! Sorry about the amount of Stahl. I love him so dearly, as you know.
> 
> Different sections of this have been checked/edited by juwude and arazuta, but any mistakes are my own. Also, as a note: Robin uses they/he pronouns in this story! I hope you enjoy it, and thank you for reading!

“Sit, milord,” Frederick instructs, and Chrom blinks and tries not to snap at the unnecessary command. He doesn’t need to sit. He doesn’t need to be checked out by anyone, let alone his younger sister; he feels golden. Better than ever. He could take on a dozen Risen armed with only a spatula.

Frederick squints. Chrom twitches, and then sits.

“What happened?” The question is not addressed to him, but to Frederick who takes a seat across from them so that he has a better vantage point for staring at Chrom with unwanted and unnecessary concern. Lissa’s hands flit over him like she’s nervous to make contact, as if stress is a thing that can be transferred from brother to sister like a cold. She finally rams her fist into his shoulder; Chrom supposes that the intent was to comfort, but that intent misses the mark. He can barely restrain himself from yelping and darting away.

As Chrom bites his lip and counts the patterns on the ceiling, Lissa digs away at a knot that refuses to budge. Frederick says, “We were training, and he fell. Out of nowhere; he just… collapsed.”

“It isn’t a big deal,” Chrom tries to persuade them. “The sun was too hot.”

The overcast sky is visible through the window, but Lissa and Frederick don’t even spare it a look. Instead, they exchange a knowing glance with one another and for some reason, it is infinitely more humiliating. Chrom considers pulling rank, but then they’ll just take this to Emmeryn, and she would be even more concerned. Gods, he can already picture her face.

“Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Have you had water?”

Chrom rolls his eyes. “You aren’t a trained healer, you know.”

“Answer the question, milord,” Frederick rumbles, the honorific tacked on as an afterthought.

“Yes, I drank some water. Yes, I slept through the night.” The former statement is truthful, but the latter is a stretch. Lately, sleep has offered no reprieve from the war, and his nightmares have plagued him enough that when he does manage to sleep, he ends up tossing and turning like a feverish child. Chrom thinks Frederick can detect the lie, but unless he really has taken to sleeping outside Chrom’s tent like he’s threatened before, he has no concrete evidence.

Lissa hums thoughtfully, stroking her chin like an old wizard. “Has something been on your mind lately?”

“Surely you’re joking,” Chrom blinks and twists around so that he can stare at her properly. “Plegia, for one. Or, what about the undead knights who keep knocking down my best Shepherds? Or the bandits threatening our borders. And for another—”

“I didn’t mean _politics_ ,” his sister huffs. “I meant you, personally.”

Chrom sighs back, short and taut. “I’m the prince of Ylisse. Every concern I have is political.”

She finally gives up and begins healing, which is what she should have done from the get-go. Her mending magic chills his back and lights up Frederick’s face as a lantern would. It feels nice, if unnecessary.

“Chrom… I know what the problem is. You’re too stressed! If you don’t find a way to relax soon, you’re going to die,” Lissa tells him, solemn and stern. Frederick’s shoulders tense up but Chrom just rolls his eyes and gets to his feet.

“Captain Chrom is going to die,” Frederick announces half an hour later to the throne room, although it’s less of an announcement than a prediction.

The three royal siblings all reply in eerie unison, “Frederick,” dismayed and unamused and annoyed, although Phila’s smirk ruins the effect of Chrom’s scolding. He’s the first to continue, stepping forward to defend his own honour. “Please don’t scare my sisters like that.”

Emmeryn frowns. “I am not scared, but I am confused.”

“It’s fine,” Chrom soothes, trying to sound placating and relaxed and not deeply frustrated. It is a partial success— he can feel a vein threatening to escape his forehead, but he doesn’t shout at his dearest confidants and family. “There isn’t anything to be confused by, it’s— this is nothing.”

“So, no death threats have been made against the throne today?” Emm doesn’t move a muscle but Chrom swears he can see a smile in her eyes, and he can clearly interpret the meaning behind her words; _wouldn’t that be a nice change of pace._

“No.” Chrom digs his nails into his palms, and then uncurls his fists very carefully when he catches Lissa watching him. He hates this; he can’t have the closest members of his militia thinking that he’s on the verge of falling apart. He is perfectly stable, and he weathers all his trials with the trained talent of a lifelong soldier. And if he must deal with a little more stress than the other citizens of the halidom— or even the other Shepherds— that is his personal problem.

He voices something like this to Emmeryn, or at least he tries to— it’s difficult to explain his woes without going into specific details. His older sister looks thoughtful, while Frederick and Lissa sport similar expressions of frustration. But thankfully none of them push it, and Chrom is relieved when they let the matter drop. Hopefully, that is the end of this nonsense.

(It hasn’t even begun yet.)

They don’t return to training for the day. Chrom’s insistence that they continue goes ignored by everyone. His retainer makes himself maddeningly scarce, which is thoroughly against his nature and thus even more maddening. Even the Shepherds that he can always rely on for a good sparring session seem to have busied themselves with other tasks; Vaike comes up with the quick excuse of ‘laundry’ after Chrom watches him spill soup on his own lap.

The only person who seems to remember the importance of battle-readiness is Stahl, who Chrom finds in the paddock behind the royal stables. As he practices lancing, his horse trots in seemingly endless circles. The grass has already worn down into a track, suggesting that he’s been out here for hours. (With a break for lunch, of course— this is _Stahl_ we’re talking about.)

Chrom leans against the fence, crossing his arms and waving. Stahl catches his eye and pats his horse’s side, who seems to understand the gentle cue and heads over. Chrom smiles at the faithful steed and greets its owner, “Stahl. Training alone today?”

Stahl nods, reaching up to scratch his neck as best he can under his heavy armour. “Yeah! Sully’s busy, but I thought I’d try to make something of my day. I should, uh, probably wrap it up soon though…”

“Please don’t stop on my account,” Chrom instructs him, and Stahl sits straighter. “Since Sully’s…” nowhere to be found, “ _busy_ , would you like me to lance with you? I could help perfect your javelin work.”

With no hesitation, Stahl says, “I think it’s best if I keep practicing on the dummy.” His tone is so friendly and polite that Chrom almost misunderstands the rejection, especially since it’s paired with a bright smile. “But you can watch!”

Feeling like a dummy himself, Chrom stays on the safe side of the fence to watch— and seethe. The sun reveals its face for the first time today, but the heat is comfortable, and no wind disturbs them. The late afternoon is beautiful, actually; the green cavalier makes a pretty sight pacing around the field and occasionally jousting either the air or the mannequin target. 

Chrom forgets to be frustrated. It’s hard to retain his anger, observe Stahl’s form, and appreciate the tan lines on his neck all at once, so he chooses two out of the three. Their practice continues like that in peaceful, beautiful silence for half an hour, as Stahl takes out whatever anger he has on the poor dummy and Chrom keeps his comments to himself.

At one point, Stahl and his steed back away before rearing forwards, and he sinks the javelin so deep into the training dummy that it comes out the other side, spilling straw into the grass. The fire in his eyes and the move itself are so familiar. Stahl even _looks_ like Frederick, really, with their matching hair and armour. There’s so much of Frederick in him, suggesting that Stahl has really taken a liking to the veteran.

Then his next lance sinks into the grass as Stahl misses his target and curses colourfully. Chrom cracks a grin, and instead of bowing and apologizing or setting the target alight, Stahl smiles back. So maybe they aren’t entirely the same.

When Chrom returns to his room for the night he finds himself as exhausted as usual, despite having wasted the afternoon with Stahl. He would ask someone to ensure that he could sleep in tomorrow morning, but such a complaint might garner concern from Lissa and Frederick again, and that’s the last thing he wants. 

He tries to make something of his evening and read, but he keeps getting stuck on the same page of a very dull strategy book. Being a tactician is useful in theory but too much knowledge is required to master it, and Chrom has never had a natural knack for it. He ends up crawling into bed a few hours after sundown, and he’s asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow.

When he wakes, he doesn’t remember any dreams. But his eyes are reluctant to open, so he stays under the covers enjoying the warm morning sunlight for a few peaceful moments. His body feels comfortable; not detached but not tense. The warmth is pleasant until Chrom thinks about it, and then he opens his eyes, slowly and suspiciously, only to be blinded by the mid-morning sun.

His door remains closed, so if any announcement was made about training being postponed, it certainly didn’t reach his room. Chrom wonders if Frederick simply died of stress overnight; it’s a thought he wonders often.

But when he gets dressed— slower than normal, savouring this stolen morning as though he’s still dreaming— and makes his way to open the door, Frederick is alive and alert and waiting in the hall. “Good morning, milord,” he says, with a slight tip of his head. “I was about to wake you.”

“Really,” Chrom mumbles, eyeing his retainer with no small amount of doubt. “You weren’t just... standing outside my room?”

“No, milord.” If Frederick is shaken by the question it does not show. “It’s time for training.”

Chrom squints.

Frederick blinks. “Unless… you would like to sleep in longer?”

Chrom leans against the door frame, folding his arms. “Ah, so I _did_ sleep in. It feels later this morning than when we usually train.” A suspicion only based on the fickle nature of _the sun_ , of course.

“I had to make preparations.” He doesn’t specify for what exactly. “So I postponed it. Not by— not by more than two hours.” Frederick clears his throat.

“... Preparations.”

“Indeed.” Again Frederick bows, and again Chrom squints at him. His usual rigidity regarding their morning sessions (and, in fact, all other training and real battles) is reliable, if unpopular. Chrom doesn’t mind the opportunity to sleep in, not _really,_ but… he suddenly finds himself paranoid that this is related to when he collapsed yesterday. But then again, it doesn’t seem like Frederick to let everyone sleep in just because Chrom had one discrete incident.

“Wonderful.” Chrom tries to keep his expression neutral and not suspicious or stubborn as he walks around Frederick, patting his shoulder as he passes him. “We’ll just train for two extra hours to make up for it, then.”

“Milord,” Frederick says, and Chrom doesn’t glance behind him to see his retainer bow a third time.

Every Shepherd is delighted by the late start, and their joy is infectious enough that Chrom doesn’t end up prolonging practice anyway. It’s not as though he has to worry about his soldiers being inept; in fact, the extra sleep seems to have aided several of them. Sumia doesn’t trip over anything and only drops one lance. Even more impressive is that she only spends five minutes apologizing and moping before she returns to Sully’s side.

When practice draws to a close, Chrom decides that he is ready to tell Frederick he’s changed his mind about the extra time. These are his friends and his trusted battalion, and there’s no need to work them all to the bone. Every one of his Shepherds is highly skilled. But before he can say a word, Stahl interrupts him. “Chrom! Can you help me out with something?”

Chrom nods and sheathes Falchion, following Stahl out of the room. The _something_ ends up being an arrangement of meat and drinks— not anything that would get them drunk, as it’s only midday. But there are different fruit juices, and fresh bread too. Chrom raises an eyebrow, curious. “You want help eating? _You?”_

Stahl laughs, and he starts to remove his armour piece by piece. Chrom swallows down a sudden weight in his throat and sucks in his cheek. The meat looks delicious. “Nah, I could probably finish this all on my own. But lunch is better together. If you… that is, I mean, if you don’t have anywhere else to be? I mean, I know you’ve got stuff to do, but, if you wanted—”

“Yes,” Chrom interrupts Stahl. “Thank you.” Once again, the cavalier shares that blinding smile with him. Chrom would just as soon sit and watch Stahl eat, but… he is hungry. They break bread together, and although the juice is perfectly innocent Chrom still feels lighthearted by the end of their lunch.

They clean up together too, and then Stahl stands and redresses in his armour. Chrom is almost sorry to see their time together end, even though he knows he’ll see the Shepherd again every day for the foreseeable future, until one or both of them is struck down. The image of Stahl being wounded in battle leaps unbidden to Chrom’s mind, and he absentmindedly twists a carving knife into the wooden table.

He hardly notices the notch he creates until Stahl interrupts his grim imaginings, stepping forward. “See you tomorrow? Same time, same place?”

Chrom is flustered and barely manages to agree coherently.

The next day Chrom’s brief doubt has dissipated entirely; their training happened at its usual early hour, and Frederick seems in higher spirits today. Chrom skips out early to meet with Emmeryn and Phila, and when he leaves, he’s sweated enough from the sunshine and swordplay that a bath is well in order.

Lissa and Ricken seem to materialize out of thin air, then, both babbling at once. Chrom can only helplessly look between them, not absorbing a word as he stares at Ricken’s crooked hat. Finally, their dizzying pitch winds to a close with, “And I thought you’d step up to be one of our experiments, brother! Because you’re always first to step into the line of duty.”

Chrom’s mouth twists. “Experiments?”

“Participants,” Ricken corrects, although he wears the same wide smile Lissa does. “A bunch of the other Shepherds have tried it too. If this worked, it would revolutionize the way people bathed!”

“Huh.” Chrom wonders if they’ve mastered telepathy as well as teleportation. “Have you two been hanging out with Miriel?”

“Nope! This was all my idea,” Lissa crows with joy. The pair begin shepherding him towards the baths, continuing to ramble about the advantages of hot showers and how they could even have medicinal benefits. It all does sound suspiciously like one of Miriel’s strange ventures, and truth be told Chrom was going to bathe in cold water, as usual. Cold water might not be as comforting as warm, but it wakes him up, and he always feels more refreshed afterwards. Ready to return to his day.

He explains this to Lissa and Ricken, who look horrified and disappointed. They end up convincing him anyway, and before Chrom knows it he’s alone in the baths. His only company is a quiet stream of water that doesn’t seem to be waiting for him to make up his mind. _Stream_ isn’t the right word; it’s flowing from a stone shelf and falling into the bath, but it’s too high on the wall for him to detect the source. 

The magical shower looks inviting, so Chrom finally relents and undresses, stepping under the waterfall. It’s even more relaxing than promised, and Chrom finds himself gasping so loud that he’s glad the baths are empty. At first the heat seems like it might be too warm to be enjoyable, but with every second spent under the shower, tension drains from his shoulders. Chrom forgets to wash properly, wasting time like he never has before.

When the water starts to finally run cold, he takes it as a signal. He towels off and finds himself yawning even though it’s hardly lunchtime. Outside the bath chambers, Lissa and Ricken are nowhere to be found.

Chrom would be able to shrug it off— except. Except. When he goes outside, hoping to dry his hair under the midday sun, he walks past Sumia; then Vaike. Neither of them is particularly unclean, it’s just— they don’t look like they’ve gotten a hot shower. Chrom begins to suspect that not everyone participated in Lissa and Ricken’s ‘experiment’, and that quickly turns into paranoia, catalyzed by yesterday’s brief moment of distrust. He doesn’t deserve special treatment because he’s the Ylissean prince— if anything, these comforts should be extended to all his Shepherds and anyone else in need.

Sully is next to pass him, heavy lance slung over her shoulder effortlessly. “Sully, a moment,” Chrom interrupts, moving to stand before her. “Have you taken a hot shower yet?”

The cavalier squints. “What? What are you asking me?” Then, much to Chrom’s embarrassment, she sniffs her armour. “Do I stink?”

“Oh, no,” Chrom sputters, “not at all! I was just wondering if you had tried the new experiment… You, you smell lovely, Sully.”

She narrows her eyes further, and then seems to appraise him. Finally, Sully smiles— it makes her look like Emmeryn. (Patiently exhausted.) “Chrom,” she says sweetly, setting off his fight-or-flight instincts, “you’re a good-looking guy but I’m not into that.”

“No,” Chrom insists, strangled, but Sully is already laughing and turning away. It would be insane to chase after her just to tell her how unattracted he is to her, so he ends up fleeing the scene.

Sure enough, the unnecessary perquisites continue. None of them are unpleasant, despite the unnecessary turmoil melting away at the bottom of Chrom’s stomach. He and Stahl eat together often now, and Chrom finds himself lonelier on the days he takes his lunch by himself. Frederick lets him sleep in some days now; not all the time, but often enough that Chrom finds it notable.

The needs of the kingdom are the only constants that do not adapt, and so their missions continue. The Shepherds march towards the Plegian border, following rumours of a small group of bandits with big dreams of insurrection. 

In the end, the bandits are just regular old robbers. Chrom feels foolish for having dragged his trusted militia of top soldiers across the halidom for this menial task; they deal with the would-be insurgents embarrassingly fast. They don’t even have to fight them all— Frederick raises his sword and the last opponent trips over himself as he runs away.

“Milord,” Frederick begins, and Chrom closes his eyes against the inevitable mission report, biting back a reminder that he’s been right here the whole time, he _knows_ the area is clear. “It might be too late for us to return to Ylisstol before dark. Shall we set up camp?”

The announcement is poorly received all around; Lissa makes no effort to hide her grumble as she kicks a rock away. Chrom suddenly feels all the missed hits from the battle land at once, as if a phantom axe is beating him down. Inexplicably he finds himself short of breath as he stares at his sister, and he has the same trouble breathing as he turns to Frederick. “Well… if we hurried, could we make it?”

“Yes, milord,” his knight replies instantly. Vaike sighs, and both Chrom and Frederick turn his way. He doesn’t pull a face or say anything; he only looks just as tired as everyone else. Frederick pauses before adding, “But… some of the Shepherds might need rest, after the walk out here.”

“Of course.” Chrom’s guilt worsens. This stupid wild goose chase is all his fault, but everyone is suffering for it. He sets up his own tent in speedy silence, and while everyone else is taking dinner Chrom retires early, confident that Frederick will take care of things. 

He always has— he’s always here to catch every mistake Chrom makes. Of course, if Chrom was simply better, then Frederick wouldn’t need to be so busy. Then he could rest too.

Chrom’s breath has stayed the same quick pace, and now it seems to outrun him. He sits on the edge of his cot, face in his hands as he struggles to calm himself down. It feels like he might be having a fever; only, he isn’t hot. Or cold. Just— anxious, to a degree he hasn’t experienced in years. 

He hears his own audible, shaking breath and moves his hands to cup them over his mouth, blocking the sound from leaving. This can stay here in his hands, in his tent, where nobody needs to witness it and use it as an excuse to coddle him further.

Chrom closes his eyes and counts the passing seconds until his heartbeat stills. It’s a sort of prayer, although to whom, he doesn’t specify. He doesn’t sleep until long after the fire outside has died down, and then he falls into a confusing nightmare.

He doesn’t mention what happened to Lissa, or to Emmeryn. His younger sister would just overreact, and their eldest has enough on her plate already. Frederick is out of the question too, since he reacts to Chrom blowing his nose with a full war strategy. This attack would be enough to send Frederick into a panic of his own.

Chrom is sure that _attack_ is the right word. He doesn’t do any research into it; he just thinks he knows for certain. It felt like the same panic he experienced as a child during difficult times, and back then the only solution was growing up. Now that Chrom has grown, he finds himself embarrassed by the strange moment of insecurity, and he strives not to think about it.

He succeeds— for days— until an encounter with Kellam in the palace courtyard catches him off-guard. To be fair to Kellam, it isn’t his fault that he has a talent for stealth. But he could have given Chrom a little warning. In one moment Chrom is carving the air with Falchion just to listen to the sound it makes, and in the very next, Kellam is blocking the blow with a sword of his own.

Chrom swears, nearly cleaving Kellam’s head in two. Fortunately, he doesn’t, and he manages to pull his sword away despite how hard he’s breathing. _Not now_ is the only thing he can think; this time the prayer is to himself. Not in front of his own troops.

“Sorry, Prince Chrom,” Kellam says, sounding both glum and nervous. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

Thankfully his momentary panic is just that— momentary. Chrom’s pulse slowly lowers, and he shakes his head. “No, no, my mistake. I shouldn’t have let my guard down— not even here.”

“Well, you are at home,” Kellam mutters. “I think you’d have to be pretty stupid to attack the prince of Ylisse in his own castle.”

Chrom secretly agrees, but there’s no point in telling that to Kellam. “Or pretty bold.”

“I dunno.” Kellam moves to scratch the back of his neck, sword still in hand, and then he starts. “Oh yeah! This is for you. That’s why I came over,” he hands the sword to Chrom, “sorry for scaring you. Again. I’ll— yell my name out or something next time.”

Chrom examines the sword as Kellam takes a step back, and then raises a hand to stop him. Belatedly, the words sink in. “Hold on. This is for— for me? But why?”

“I dunno,” Kellam repeats softly. “I just thought you needed a new one. I mean, Falchion is beautiful, o-of course! But this one’s really light, um, it lets you strike twice.” Chrom tries it out and discovers that Kellam’s right; in the same amount of time that Falchion could lay one devastating blow, this clever sword could land two. “I just thought… you’re always doing a lot for all of us, so I thought it’d be a nice gift.”

Well. When Kellam puts it like that, Chrom can’t possibly be annoyed with him. That would be worse than stubbornly fueling his irrational doubts about the motives of his friends; he would sound insane and cruel. He inspects the narrow sword, appreciating the special designs etched along the blade and even into the end of the handle. “Thank you very much, Kellam; it’s a perfect gift. I hope you didn’t pay for this yourself?”

“Nope! I spoke with the blacksmith in Ylisstol and he made it free of charge, because he really respects you and the Queen and Princess, because of all you’ve done for the kingdom and stuff. And I think he was happy to have such an important client,” Kellam chatters. Then, suddenly, he flushes. “I… guess that kind of… undermines the gift, a little bit.”

“No, it’s wonderful. I really appreciate it anyway.” Chrom has never had a gift for comforting others but Kellam’s embarrassment seems to subside at the reassurance, which is a relief. “Shall we test it out?”

They spar together, and at first Chrom goes so easy on Kellam that any bystanders would surely assume he was training with a very tall child. But he starts to break a sweat when he loses the third and fourth rounds, and Kellam’s skill seems to acclimate to his own without fail. He realizes that the knight has improved greatly since the beginning of his training, and that now he is more formidable than anyone could have expected.

Chrom still beats him every time, but by the end as he’s sweating through his armour he has begun to wonder if Kellam is going easy on _him_.

“Don’t hold back,” Chrom warns Vaike. Stahl is there watching them but no one else is nearby, which is a blessing. When he spars with Vaike, Lissa has a tendency to hover. She frets over every bruise, winces at each clang of steel against steel, and even dislikes the words they exchange. If she had things her way, Chrom suspects she would imprison him in the throne room to act purely as a political figurehead— and Emmeryn and Phila would probably aid her.

While that would be safer, of course, there’s no fun to be had in hanging back and watching his knights win the war. Vaike laughs at the request, loud and harsh. “What do you take me for, little man? You think I’d go easy on you just because you’re my boss, or my student? You’re still my rival.”

Chrom twitches, so as not to tell Vaike in no uncertain terms that he is not Vaike’s student, nor are they rivals. That long-held belief in their imaginary rivalry has motivated Vaike for so long that to doubt it now would bring their whole friendship into question. He raises Falchion and Vaike steps forward, swinging his axe menacingly with both hands. From the fence, Stahl calls over, “I thought Ashar was your rival?”

For the first time ever, Chrom watches Vaike _blush_. It’s unmistakable; the colour and heat creeps up his neck and soon even his ears are pink. “That’s old news!”

Chrom tilts his head and sword to the same side quizzically. “Who is Ashar?”

“He was one of our schoolmates,” Stahl chimes in. “He and Vaike were good friends but they would get really competitive about the smallest things.”

“The Vaike hasn’t seen Ashar in years,” mopes Vaike, who sounds pretty glum about it despite the usual dramatic way he addresses himself. “It’s fine because now we have Chrom, and no one could be a more formidable rival than our dear prince!”

Now Chrom is the one getting flustered. “Let’s fight then,” he insists, and they do. Vaike doesn’t go easy on him, and each round is just as difficult as his training with Kellam. Chrom pushes thoughts of friendship and nostalgia out of his head in order to win.

Stahl sneaks away halfway through their sparring with the excuse of going to get a snack, and when Lissa shows up five minutes later and yells at them for being careless and not using training weapons, Chrom regrets not taking more precautions against the watchful eye of his little sister.

Chrom doesn’t spend all his time fighting, despite what Lissa thinks. In-between rounds of sparring and battle there is plenty of time for him to tackle his more peaceful duties, although writing and reading are far from his favourite parts of being a prince. 

Their palace has a royal library stocked with thousands of historical books, and Chrom finds solace in hiding between the stacks to handle his responsibilities. It isn’t a very popular place for the Shepherds to visit— with the notable exception of Miriel, but she and Chrom frequent different sections.

Today, however, fate seems to have something else in mind for him. He’s halfway through a freakishly detailed report from Frederick and is heavily considering taking a nap right there in the library when he hears— and then feels— someone interrupt him. “P-Prince Chr— agh, oh no!”

The intruder knocks the entire table forward, but thankfully the arms of the chair block it from hitting Chrom’s chest. The papers in front of him are not so lucky and a pile collapses like a house of cards, falling into his lap and then down onto the floor. Chrom stares at the disorganization and doesn’t look up right away. He could be blinded and still recognize that clumsy gait. “Good evening, Sumia.”

“Hi,” she replies, and then, “I’m so sorry!” which is how a good deal of their conversations begin. “I didn’t mean to mess up your work, I just tripped over this big book that was on the floor.” 

She lifts an Ylissean botanical compendium which Chrom had pitched off the table maybe an hour ago. He grimaces, and then waves it off. Technically his own fault. “Don’t worry about it. Can I help you with something?”

Cheerful as usual now that she’s been absolved, Sumia places the book on the desk. “I just thought that it looked like you needed a break!”

Chrom groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Um… nobody said that to me! I just thought— No, I can leave you alone,” Sumia decides, turning to go.

Chrom reasons with himself that it would be far more irritating to sit here for the rest of the day and wonder what she wanted. He (gladly) folds up the report from Frederick for later. “No, it’s fine. What did you have in mind?”

“Oh!” Sumia turns back to the cart she’d brought in, retrieving a short stack of books from the top. “Well, a-as a matter of fact, I wanted to share some of my favourite books with you!”

Chrom reads the titles on some of the spines, and he blanches. “Actually, I should return to my work.”

“Chrom! You’ll like them, I promise! Just give them a chance!”

Some time later, the candle runs out and extinguishes itself quietly and without ceremony. Chrom looks up to find Sumia, head bent over a storybook at an angle that can’t possibly be comfortable. She’s reading part of an anthology about princesses and wars; subjects that would be interesting in theory, but in this style of writing, they’re simply…

“Sumia,” he breaks the silence. She glances up, startled. “I hate them.”

The knight peers over the table at what Chrom is currently reading. She doesn’t seem astonished or even disappointed by this admission, just nodding and sighing. “I… know. That one isn’t very good.”

“You said that about the last one too,” Chrom mumbles.

Sumia doesn’t look away. “But… you did finish the last one. … Well, whatever. I’m sorry, Prince Chrom; you don’t have to feel obligated to keep reading them if you don’t like them!”

Sumia reaches for the copy of _The King’s Demise_ in his hands, but Chrom holds onto it tightly. “No. I’ve invested this much time, so I might as well finish it.”

“Okay,” Sumia says nervously, and Chrom lights the candle again. They keep reading together until late in the night.

Chrom doesn’t even know the last straw is coming until it arrives in the form of a present.

He’s had a horrible morning, following a horrible week— even Emmeryn is starting to look tired these days. There’s no hope of things getting _easier_ either; something in Chrom’s gut keeps insisting that the trouble hasn’t even begun.

Maybe that persistent worry has been what’s keeping him from relaxing. Chrom doesn’t feel like he’s been pushing himself especially harder than usual, but he is exhausted. Even though he keeps having impromptu meetings with his friends and getting tricked into privileges like late mornings and other timewasters, he still feels like he’s running himself ragged. He hasn’t had a moment for himself in so long that the prospect of a mid-morning nap is alluring enough for him to skip out on practice. (Sorry, Stahl.)

He doesn’t even really think he’ll nap, but to lie down on his bed, bury his face in a pillow, close his eyes, and clear his mind for a few minutes would be solace enough. Chrom doesn’t quite run to his room but it’s a close thing. He only stops walking when he sees a small parcel outside his door, unlabelled and nondescript.

Chrom brings it inside his room, momentarily distracted from his rest. He tears the paper wrapping apart with Falchion’s tip, and then pulls the drawstring bag open to reveal a small vial. The bottle isn’t labelled either but when he opens it to gingerly smell its contents, the inoffensive scent of soap is all that greets him.

He pours the salve over his hands, which have been drier than usual— not that any mystery gift-giver could have gotten close enough to notice the flaw. The thought is embarrassing, and that embarrassment strikes irritation in Chrom, which quickly blossoms into anger.

On their own, each of the occurrences that spring to mind would have been easy to dismiss as simple human compassion. He considers Stahl bringing him lunch every day, and tricking him into taking breaks from training to instead sit around and do nothing at all. Frederick letting him sleep in. Lissa and Ricken manipulating him into wasting hot water on long showers. Sumia sharing her beloved stories with him, and Kellam bringing him new weapons without being asked to do so, just like how this new gift appeared outside his door without warning or any request.

He remembers Frederick announcing ‘Captain Chrom is going to die’, as solemn as a pallbearer. Chrom considers how worried Lissa has been since his collapse, and he feels gravely embarrassed at the idea that his anxious suspicions have been correct. Everyone— all the Shepherds, at least— must have been collaborating on this mission to… well, to be nice to him. Which is, of course, not something he can reasonably accuse his friends of, since it isn’t actual collusion and it doesn’t really inconvenience him.

Except Chrom has been through the whole royal idol worship thing before; he’s met people who have told him he’s working too hard, and he usually never gets along with those people. He _knows_ he could be working harder, and the last thing he needs is for his stalwart troops to turn sycophantic. It’s one thing for the Shepherds to remain deferential, but quite another for them to worry about Chrom. If he lets this continue, eventually someone will begin to doubt his ability to do his duties, and then he’ll have lost the faith of his trusted knights.

It cuts deeper than that though. The more Chrom thinks about it, the more embarrassed he feels by the entire conspiracy. If the people that he considers his friends must be _ordered_ to spend time with him… well, that’s just too depressing to consider. He prays that he’s wrong, and reading too much into all of this.

Chrom goes to Frederick first. His retainer is the most obvious suspect for this not-crime (other than Lissa), and he’s also never very far away. Today, Chrom finds him alone in the throne room, descending the stairs one by one as he wipes down the banisters. Chrom can’t help but frown at the sight, momentarily distracted. Frederick wearing his giant armour to polish the gold until it gleams is more comical than inspiring. They must have someone else whose actual job it is to do such menial cleaning tasks.

“Frederick,” Chrom calls over, and the knight almost drops the rag. He stands at attention, peering down at Chrom curiously. “Are you the one behind all this?”

His retainer coughs, hangs the rag neatly over the handrail, and starts to descend the stairs. “Behind all of what, milord?”

“This,” Chrom gestures at his own palms, and then when that yields only a confused eyebrow raise, he grunts. “All of this— these kindnesses, from everyone, that have been happening. To me.”

Frederick reaches the bottom of the stairs so that he only stands one step above Chrom— he still towers above his prince. He hesitates there, but his answer is instant and devoid of embarrassment. “I am.”

Chrom had suspected this, obviously, but to hear it from Frederick first-hand and without even an apology is bizarre. He stares, agape, and demands, “Why? It’s humiliating to be treated like this, Frederick. You’ve got some nerve telling people that I don’t know how to relax when _you_ —”

“Milord,” Frederick interrupts him. A rarity; enough so that Chrom shuts up. “With respect, this isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be. I would never disparage you in that way; I believe that you know how to relax, I just don’t believe that you… make time for it.”

“Of course I do,” Chrom interrupts, astonished by Frederick’s hypocrisy. “I can take care of my own affairs, Frederick, I’m a grown man. I know that rest and renewal are important; I tell all the knights not to overwork themselves!”

Frederick doesn’t look away. “But then you go on and try to fight battles on your own, simply because you know you can! It’s not like I told everyone what to do, or put a strict plan in action to make sure you were resting and eating. Everyone just wants to help you relax as best they can, and to show you that it doesn’t have to be such a hard life. Everyone cares about you.”

This doesn’t help Chrom’s embarrassment at all. That last sentence has him ducking his head and breaking eye contact. Frederick continues to watch him until Chrom asks, “Are… are you the one that sent the gift?”

For once, Frederick is mortified. He takes the final step until they’re standing on level ground, facing each other, but his gaze is still demure and facing the floor. Of course he’s the one that sent the gift. Who else would notice such a triviality as the back of Chrom’s hands growing dry sometimes?

The embarrassing thing is that Frederick is right, of course, about all of it. Chrom resents the implication that he’s too stupid and hard-headed to know when he’s overworking himself, _especially_ coming from Frederick himself, but… the deviances from his normal routine have been relaxing, and life does feel significantly easier to face with his friends at his side. When it becomes clear that Frederick won’t say anything else, Chrom offers, “I’ve put it to good use,” and shows off his palms as if in prayer.

“May I see?” Chrom nods, and Frederick moves forward to take Chrom’s soft hands in his. His fingers are long and thick, but his touch is gentle enough that his fingertips hardly dig into Chrom’s skin at all. His hands glide over the backs of Chrom’s and then curl and weave around until their fingers are locked together. “They feel nice.”

“Thanks to you,” Chrom mutters, making no move to pull his hands away.

Frederick hums in thought. He confesses, “I’ve been very stressed about helping you relax, since I myself have no concept of what it is to properly take care of yourself in such a fashion. I consider it a waste of time, really. But... it’s not just my job to keep you safe on the field; I must make sure you’re alright all the time. I want to help you, and to keep you healthy. And more than that, to make you happy.” The knight squeezes his hands before asking, sounding uncertain, “Has… has having your friends around more helped at all?”

“Yes,” Chrom answers without having to consider it much. “Yes, Frederick, you’re very good at your job.”

“Hm. Then let me do it,” Frederick tells him, and he then leans in to press a soft kiss to Chrom’s forehead. Both men are glowing bright pink, and they stay there holding hands alone together in the throne room for longer than would perhaps be considered proper.

From then on, Chrom is an imperfect captain. He sleeps past the break of dawn some days, and he wastes hours on trivial things like bad storybook anthologies and making time to have lunch with his friends. He talks to his team more. When they laugh, he’s there laughing with them, and they seem to love him more when he demonstrates his care for them. He takes the occasional hot shower, forgiving himself for the small luxuries, and he slowly, slowly starts to heal.

And then they meet Robin.

And then, weeks later, Emmeryn dies.

His team’s small kindnesses seem to disappear overnight. Routines that he has grown into for months stop occurring, and Chrom is left stumbling around, chasing ghosts, trying to figure out why his grief has made him intolerable to hang out with. It doesn’t seem like his sister’s death has turned him into an unpleasant person, but there’s no other explanation for why the Shepherds drop contact. Stahl gives him a wide berth for some reason, as does their new thief Gaius. Sumia nearly slaps him once— Sully stops her in time, but even that doesn’t snap Chrom out of it.

Chrom thinks that if he stops moving, he will crumble. He allows himself to sleep in one morning, exhaustion outweighing the need to get back out there and strategize, and fight, and do _something_. His body is simply unable to persist; he’s never been a crier, but last night he had come close to tears while reading Phila’s old logs detailing stories of her time as Emmeryn’s bodyguard.

When he wakes up, Lissa has crawled into bed with him. She’s already awake, lying still on the bed. Chrom has seen his sister fight with just as much fire as any of the other Shepherds but right now she looks listless and morose and somehow, despite her inertia, clearly devastated.

Lissa stares. There are little red oval-shaped marks under her eyes like she’d spent the whole night crying and had only come to him for sanctuary in the early hours of the morning. Chrom feels sick looking at her. She asks, “Are you alright?”

It’s not the sort of question that invites an honest answer, even though it sounds sincere enough. Chrom is a good brother and a good leader. Lissa needs him to be both those things now, and she needs him to say yes, and that he’s alright. He says yes.

He throws himself into his work more after that; more now than ever before. And he doesn’t sleep in again.

In some ways, the grief makes it easier to convince himself he’s focusing. Emmeryn’s death has certainly had an impact on some of their enemies, let alone the massive effect it’s had on Ylisse. With every passing day Chrom finds it easier to rationalize his own actions. He listens to his tactician, and his retainer, and he does his job. He doesn’t allow himself time for small pleasures, trying to live up to ideals he wouldn’t set for any of his other knights. He makes up his mind never to be stuck in a no-win scenario like that again, and he keeps his loved ones by his side.

Frederick tries to confront him sooner than Chrom expected, approaching him during a break between battles in a coastal village. Chrom can almost feel his presence before he speaks— or maybe he just smells the bloodstained armour— but either way, he turns around to face his retainer right as Frederick says, “Milord, have you eaten yet today?”

“I’m not starving myself, Frederick,” Chrom snaps at him. Something shutters in the knight’s face, and Chrom instantly feels guilty for his reaction.

He seeks Frederick out later that afternoon, when they’ve dealt with the next round of dastardous enemies who came at them spitting and swinging. Eventually the stains on Frederick’s armour must have spread past more than what he considered a presentable level, as he’s busy washing and cleaning it. Chrom doesn’t get to see him in his actual clothes very often, especially these days. He breathes in the sight of Frederick in his white shirt, and then inhales the smell of sea salt and blood. 

This time, Frederick notices him. He sits up straight but doesn’t stand, and when he looks at Chrom he continues to hold his armour across his lap. “Milord?”

“I want to apologize for snapping at you earlier,” Chrom begins. He can hear the exhaustion in his own voice, and it only serves to exhaust him more. Frederick looks confused by the change of heart. “I don’t want to have offended such a close and valued friend. … I overreacted.”

Waving a hand, Frederick insists, “No apology is necessary, and no offense was taken!”

“I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way, I know you’re just looking out for me.” Chrom sighs and turns to go when a thought occurs. Before he leaves, he turns to point an accusing finger at Frederick. “But this is _not_ an invitation for you to tend to me again. I don’t— I can take care of myself.”

He doesn’t wait for Frederick’s answer, practically running away.

Robin is one of their greatest assets, in Chrom’s (completely correct) opinion. His strategy to pair knights up together is so natural and intuitive that after only a few days of pairing up troops, it feels like that has been their go-to battle tactic since the very first fight. 

Chrom finds himself paired up with the tactician most of the time, which is both a flattering compliment and a bitter relief. Robin’s lack of memory has not quelled their voracious curiosity for observing the Shepherds, but they still pry less about Emmeryn’s death than all Chrom’s other friends do. This makes perfect sense, of course; Robin is a professional, and he didn’t know Chrom as a friend for very long before they went to Plegia Castle. Chrom still catches Robin watching him sometimes with the same inquisitive sadness he sees everyone else trying to hide, but it happens less.

Being paired with one person most of the time does have its downsides, however. Namely, Chrom begins to feel that he’s falling out of touch with his other friends. He cannot entirely blame that on the Shepherds drawing back from him, as he hasn’t exactly been the most sociable person in Ylisse. 

His guilt comes to a head when he sees one of the newest Shepherds pull off a nearly impossible maneuver. Chrom’s heart leaps into his throat when a Revenant stomps towards their war monk with obvious intent to kill, and its rotten claws land a blow that, by rights, should be the end of Libra. He doesn’t just fall; he crumples, folding in on himself like a deflating balloon.

He’s dead. That’s it. Chrom lashes out with Falchion as Robin hits the Revenant, attacking it with perfect aim, and the combination of tome and blade bring the monster to its second death. Chrom doesn’t wait to hear the confirmation of victory from Frederick, abandoning his partner to run towards the monk. “Maribelle,” he yells. “Is he…?”

But before the other healers can step in, Libra rises to his knees, breathing hard. His thigh is torn open, but the vulnerability and open wound don’t even seem to register. His eyes are closed as he grabs an elixir and drains it, throwing his head back.

“That was a close call,” Gaius comments from beside Libra, reaching out a hand to help him up. Libra doesn’t open his eyes, but he shakes his head, climbing up unassisted and pressing his hand to his leg, covering the tear in the fabric. Chrom watches, still trying to calm his own heart rate down.

The incident stays on his mind long after Libra makes a full recovery, and Chrom decides that something must be done about it. He’s slacking in his position as leader of the Shepherds if his knights are mastering foreign moves that Chrom has never seen before. He needs to know their capabilities as well as Robin does, or better.

He approaches Libra first, since he already knows there’s uncharted ground there to explore. They’ve made camp in the desert—not far from the coast, but the ocean seems worlds away in this dry heat. Thankfully, the lack of hills or structures makes it easy to find his wandering knights; Chrom doesn’t even have to ask Henry’s bird-eyes for help.

Libra is training with Stahl— or, at least, Chrom thinks that’s what they’re doing. It looks more like dancing, really. The pair stretches in different poses again and again, but they never move into sparring, stuck in an endless warm-up. Chrom feels unreasonably frustrated watching them, especially since they aren’t in armour or anything protective. (He isn’t wholly sure why that adds to his frustration, but it does.)

“Libra,” Chrom calls, and both men turn to look his way. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”

Libra waves a hand, and unwinds from the complex position he has curled his body into somehow. “Not at all. Would you like to join us?”

“Uh,” Chrom stammers, looking between them. Stahl is almost unrecognizable out of his tall armour and away from his horse; if Chrom had not spent hours sitting so closely with him, he might have mistaken him for Frederick. In fact, now that he’s looking for it, he’s certain that Stahl has started to style his hair differently so that he might resemble Chrom’s retainer even more. “Perhaps later. I was wondering if you could tell me how exactly you survived that Revenant’s attack? It was amazing to witness, but terrifying; I was sure you were doomed.”

“Call it a miracle,” Libra says. Only the tiny twitch of his lips gives away that that might have been a joke. “I can try to teach you if you would like, but since you’re not a holy man, I don’t know if it would work exactly in the same way…”

“I’m not asking to gain the technique for myself, I was just curious about it,” Chrom tells him. “So that… ah, prayer, probably wouldn’t work unless we were in a real battle, but in cases like that it would help preserve your life when necessary?”

“To let others assist me and give me one last fighting chance,” Libra nods. “In that case, it was you and Robin. I never thanked you properly for that.”

“You don’t need to thank me at all! I mean, Gaius was paired with you, I’m sure he would have ended it if we had been too far away.” This thought sits sourly on Chrom’s tongue even after leaving it, and it’s not hard to divine why.

Libra watches him keenly. “We can discuss it later if you’d like to learn more about devotion. But for now, we’ll resume. Feel free to join, Prince Chrom.”

Chrom glances at Stahl, whose smile is welcoming and bright as ever. “Well… alright, but you’ll have to walk me through it!”

They stretch together for another hour, until the unobstructed heat has become too much for even Libra to fight off. Stahl’s turning as red as Sully’s hair, even though they haven’t done much more than try to hold poses and contort their bodies. Still, when Libra finally announces an end to the stretching, Chrom is surprised by how weak he feels upon standing up, as if he had ridden hard on horseback for the hour instead.

“Gods, that was intense,” he tells an enviously unaffected Libra. “That wasn’t the technique I came here to learn about, but that… do you do that often?”

“Upon occasion,” Libra smiles. His smile makes Chrom feel even warmer somehow. “You’re welcome to join me again sometime; and you too, Stahl.”

The cavalier nods, still sitting on the sand. Libra takes his leave of them, and Chrom finds himself alone with Stahl for the first time in what feels like ages. Surely it hasn’t been that long, right? He finds himself hit with a sudden yearning to spend more time with Stahl, missing him even though they’re right next to each other.

“Good work-out, huh?” Stahl speaks, before Chrom can think of what to say. He nods back in response, and Stahl climbs to his feet, shaking himself off. “Hey, Chrom… while we’re together, there’s something I wanted to say to you. I’m sorry about what happened with your sister.”

Oh, that’s— not what he was expecting or ready to hear. Chrom’s only reply at first is a horrible gurgling noise from the back of his throat, that he can’t blame on the dryness of their surroundings. He folds his arms over his chest, and then unfolds them, hands hanging limply at his side. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“Well… I meant that I’m sorry for your loss, but I do think I have to apologize.” The cavalier hangs his head. “I wasn’t around for you the way I should’ve been; I mean, I didn’t even offer. I just figured that you probably would’ve reached out if you needed help, and that you had other people who’d take care of you if you needed that. I just wanted to give you space, you know?”

“I didn’t want space,” Chrom answers, surprising himself with his honesty. He mirrors Stahl, lowering his own head to stare at the sand beneath their feet. “I didn’t need anyone taking care of me but I… It was hard to not have my daily time with you anymore. It affected me more than I would have thought.”

“Oh, Chrom.” Stahl’s feet move forward, and before he can even look up he’s being pulled into a hug. Despite the heat, and how uncomfortably sweaty they both are, it’s… not unpleasant. To say the very least.

Chrom breathes out, reaching around to hold the back of Stahl’s shoulders tightly. “It’s still affecting me,” he admits quietly.

“Then I’m extra sorry,” Stahl says, squeezing him. Has he always been this tall? It’s hard to remember. Chrom feels a little faint, but he can blame that on the sunshine. “I, um, missed our time together too.”

“Then we’ll start doing lunches again,” Chrom decides, pulling back so that he can meet Stahl’s gaze. He looks delighted by the prospect. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Stahl blurts out. He hugs Chrom again and they make plans to go eat, and Chrom manages to trick himself into believing that all this is purely for Stahl’s sake.

He supposes he should have expected what comes next, since he accepted Stahl’s not-apology. Chrom’s day has been spent mostly here in the barracks with Frederick and Robin, cataloguing their inventory of weapons and staves and other interesting items. Robin’s curiosity and Frederick’s dedication mean that they’ll likely be doing this for the rest of the night—except then a knock comes on the door, and his tactician and retainer exchange a meaningful look before making themselves scarce.

“Hello, Captain Chrom,” Sumia says, voice wavering uncertainly. She’s hardly even entered the room yet, peeking around the open doorframe. It makes her look uncommonly like Kellam. “Can you spare a minute?”

Chrom cranes his neck to try and see Robin and Frederick, but it appears they both took off. It’s anyone’s guess who orchestrated that escape; they both love planning but Frederick doesn’t like Robin, and he doesn’t like sneaking around behind Chrom’s back (as far as he knows, anyway). He sighs, gesturing for her to come in with the glass lance in his hands. “… It appears I can. What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I just, I—I owe you an apology,” the knight trips over her own words. She enters the barracks, shutting the door behind her. “I shouldn’t have hit you! It was inexcusable, and I’ve since done some research on the subject and apparently it’s one of the least effective ways to help someone going through—well, um, anyway, it’s not very effective and can in fact be harmful!”

It sounds like she’s reciting all this, but at double-speed and on the verge of tears. Chrom puts the lance down, stepping towards Sumia. “Hey, it’s alright. You didn’t even hit me, Sully stopped you!”

“I know, but if she hadn’t been there, then I could have done some serious damage!” Sumia trembles at the thought. “And not just physically, but mentally too—”

“Well, good thing she was there, then,” Chrom says sternly. “I won’t accept your apology, Sumia, you have nothing to be sorry for. I wasn’t acting like myself. And if anyone else has apologies to come and offer me, you can tell them to save them.”

“H-huh?”

“Ah— never mind.” Chrom fidgets, embarrassed at both the mention of his _mental state_ and the revelation that this is, apparently, not related to Stahl’s apology. “Did Sully tell you to come speak with me?”

“No, not really. She helped me with some of the research, though.” Sumia smiles absently, like she’s unaware of her own joy. “For someone who isn’t very intellectual and doesn’t like reading, Sully is a genius! She’s really _emotionally_ intelligent too, even if she seems like she wouldn’t be.”

Chrom raises an eyebrow. “You and Sully have gotten a lot closer, then?”

“Oh, yes!” The knight beams. “We have tea together, and we talk about horses and pegasi.” _And me_ , Chrom privately thinks. “And we talk about our future together too!”

“Oh?” echoes Chrom, and then, “Oh! That’s great to hear, Sumia… you deserve happiness like that!”

“Thank you, Prince Chrom!” Then, Sumia stares quite oddly at him, and Chrom prays he isn’t in for some speech about how she used to have feelings for him. Practically everyone in Ylisse had known about that, and it makes him especially glad that she’s moved on, because those are feelings he couldn’t possibly reciprocate. “You know, there is one thing Sully doesn’t like to do with me.”

“…” Chrom watches as Sumia disappears from the barracks, and then drags in a cart behind her. He’s sure it isn’t the very same library cart from the last time they read together, but it’s piled with books of the same nature. This time, the stacks are even higher. “I’m not sure we have time for this, Sumia.”

“But there are so many new installments! You were reading _Lethal Swordsman_ , right? Well, the author came out with a new one! Don’t you want to know what happens to Prince Alfonse?!”

“No,” Chrom insists as Sumia holds out a book to him, and then, as she tosses it his way, “gods,” and as he catches it and opens it to the first page, “We have a _war_ to focus on, Sumia.”

When Cordelia comes into the barracks to stock up hours later, Chrom has been thoroughly sucked into the bad plots of Sumia’s anthologies, and he doesn’t even have a good excuse as to why. Sumia hands her a book before she can make any comment, and they add another club member to their suffering circle.

The next village they head to doesn’t have any space for them to set up camp, and the inn is too full for all the Shepherds to consider renting a room. Frederick proposes the idea of just Chrom staying the night in town, accompanied by one close companion, and the volume of offers is staggering. Chrom, unable to decide if he’s embarrassed or flattered, declines the idea altogether, insisting that they can all camp together.

On their way out of town, Robin stops a passing young woman and asks her if this backwater village is always this busy— they phrase their question more politely, obviously, but the meaning is clear. The woman looks confused, tilting her head to the side. “Oh, you’re not from around here? It’s our summer festival; people come from all over to celebrate with us! _You_ should come.”

This last suggestion is accompanied by a rather suggestive eyebrow raise, which Robin seems to find amusing. They begin, “I don’t know—”

And Gaius interrupts, “Now, hang on, Bubbles.” Chrom feels a very early headache coming on. “I’d like to hear more!”

The thief won’t shut up about it even after they’ve left the village woman behind, nor when they’ve reached a clearing enough to make camp for the night. Frederick sweeps the area (at first figuratively) as the mages start a fire, and the other capable hands start building tents. Gaius helps with none of these tasks, following Chrom around and wheedling him about going. “I mean, when are you going to get another opportunity like this?!”

“I don’t think it’s much of an opportunity,” Chrom says delicately, not much wanting to offend the people of Nowheresville, even this far away from their settlement too small to properly be called a town. “It sounds like an excuse for people to get drunk.”

“Exactly,” Gaius cries with misplaced triumph. “To get drunk and distract themselves from the war! Doesn’t that sound fun?”

“So does a good night of rest,” Chrom says, burying a tent peg beneath his heel. He looks up to see Gaius staring at him plaintively— the other man is about his height, but Chrom suddenly feels protective for some reason. It’s not quite protectiveness, it’s… Something about Gaius’ pout is making his stomach do odd things, like _he’s_ the one that’s been subsisting entirely on candy for days.

Oblivious to Chrom’s turmoil, Gaius insists, “It’ll be good for you. You’ve gotta let your hair down.”

The phrase is funny, and even though Gaius has done nothing to make their plans for the night alluring, Chrom finds himself caving. “… Fine. If you can guarantee we’ll be back before sunrise, I’ll go.”

“Before sunrise!” Gaius laughs, stoking embarrassment in Chrom. He doesn’t _do_ things like this; he doesn’t go out and waste his nights drinking, so he doesn’t know exactly how long these things are supposed to take. “You don’t half-ass anything, do you, Blue?”

Chrom glances around their makeshift shelter. “Shall I invite the other Shepherds?”

“Sure, the more the merrier,” Gaius says, until he sees Frederick coming their way. “Well, I mean, that is, that really only applies if they’re, um, merry people. I mean, Frederick, can you even handle your drink?”

How easy it is for Frederick’s face to fall into a glare. What a marvel. “What?”

Gaius waves a hand, and recovers quickly. “That’s what I thought! Yeah, maybe we’re better off going alone, _milord_.”

His retainer squints. “Going where?”

“Gaius has invited me to attend the local summer festival with him,” Chrom tells Frederick cheerfully and then watches as Frederick travels through most emotions known to man. He sees interest there, however brief, but it is shuttered quickly by distrust and disapproval. “In his own words, ‘the more, the merrier’. Will you accompany us?”

“If milord wishes it.” Frederick’s reply comes in a trained neutral tone. Not for the first time, Chrom wishes his friend wasn’t so professional; it might be nice to know Frederick’s actual thoughts and opinions on things.

But no protest is made, and Gaius seems to warm to the idea the further they get from camp, so Frederick ends up tagging along. Their mage Henry follows him, unnoticed by the three until he falls out of a tree in front of them, apparently on purpose. Frederick checks him for injuries, but Henry is not only unscathed but delighted. He clings to Frederick as though he’s already three sheets to the wind and needs help to walk, and Gaius exchanges a look with Chrom. Chrom mouths, ‘the more the merrier!’

The celebration is loud enough to drive wildlife far away, and the lights and colours of the village are enough to send Chrom’s trepidation away too. Gaius rushes forward to the closest cart, offering coin for a sticky dessert bun. Henry follows him into the noise, peering up at the decorations with blind eyes. His crows must be here too somewhere then— Chrom hasn’t asked how that whole situation works. Or maybe he just likes craning his neck.

The prince and his most trusted knight are left alone together, straggling behind the crowd and their more adventurous friends. “Frederick, I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay.” Chrom looks over and up at Frederick, who is still wearing his armour over his retainer’s outfit. “I don’t think you get more than three hours of sleep a night anyway, so I know this is precious time for you.”

Frederick glances over, meeting his eyes. “You asked me to come, milord.”

“I know! And I would like to have you stay with us. I just don’t want you to feel like I’m _ordering_ you to be festive.”

The contact is so gentle that Chrom doesn’t register it at first and assumes it must be the crowd bustling around them. When the gentle pressure against his shoulder doesn’t disappear right away Chrom turns, half-expecting a cutpurse or some salesperson, desperate to get his attention. But all he sees is Frederick’s gloved hand, connected to Frederick’s armour and the rest of him, because Frederick has slid an arm around him to gently guide him through the crowd. Chrom flushes immediately.

“You once told me that I only smile when I am about to bring down my axe,” Frederick says, ignoring his own grip on Chrom valiantly. Chrom struggles to do the same. He fails. He hardly remembers telling Frederick such a thing, even if it is true. “Maybe the festivities will draw another smile out of me.”

His lips twitch as he watches Chrom. Again, that tumult hits his stomach. Chrom forces his gaze away, vividly aware of how hot his face is. Maybe having some ale in him will do some good and distract him from feeling like this.

The first inn they approach is too packed to enter; Chrom cannot see the bar from their spot at the door. It looks more like a battlefield than a festival, and his discomfort must be obvious on his face because Gaius doesn’t even try to force them in here. “Hang on,” he says, pulling them out into the night again— and actually physically _pulling_ Henry, because at some point the pair of them linked arms. “That’s shit. We’re not going there.”

The cursing and confidence might be repellent coming from another thief, but Gaius wears it well, making it seem charming. Roguish but not wicked. Chrom and Frederick follow him to the next inn, which has a more pleasant atmosphere before they even step in; Chrom can smell meat, and he wonders if maybe eating would be a good idea before drinking.

Gaius seems to read his mind, and they forgo standing at the bar in favour of sitting around a table with pitchers of sweet mead and prime cuts of meat. Chrom feels guilty for taking this poor village’s good meat when they could just as easily hunt in the woods; even the splendour of the festival cannot disguise the impact that the war has had here. But the barkeep returns to their table again and again to remind them how delighted he is to be serving Prince Chrom In The Flesh, and when Gaius catches him looking sorrowfully at the delicious food, he reminds him that they’ll be paying for more than their fair share, especially if they’re getting charged royal prices.

The drinking is better than he expects; the mead goes down smoothly, as do the mysterious drinks that follow. Frederick insists on trying all Chrom’s drinks before he does, egged on by Gaius and Henry. Frederick’s disturbing logic is that if someone wished to poison Chrom in an act of assassination, this would be the perfect opportunity. Gaius’ debatably clever logic is that by sneaking extra sips to Frederick _and_ buying him his own pints, they can get him really drunk. Henry cackles, “I just like to watch his face after he takes that first sip!”

Chrom stops counting how many drinks he’s had after the third; he’s certain Frederick wouldn’t let things get out of hand anyway, even if he’s drinking too. Gaius keeps offering him cloudy cocktails that smell too sweet, and Henry is holding a glass of ale as black as the night sky. It becomes harder to focus on his surroundings, individual stimuli capturing his attention. He feels unencumbered and devoid of his usual responsibilities as the prince of Ylisse. Here, surrounded by his friends, it’s easy to relax.

Which is to say, it’s easy to relax until a hulking brute of a man walks past them. Chrom takes note of him for his sheer width, but the man seems to notice him right back. He makes some passing comment about straying too far from his castle— not exactly a threat, but certainly not a vow of friendship.

Frederick jolts up out of his seat, staggering to his feet with surprising speed for a man who’s consumed as much liquor as he has. He tells the villager, “Move along,” simple and stern. Chrom knows this is a precarious situation, but in the state he’s in, the only thought on his mind is how very, very tall Frederick is.

“ _You_ move along,” the man replies, and spits. Thankfully it lands on the floor between them. If he had managed to land his spit on Chrom, gods know what would have happened. “We don’t want you here in our home, bringing nothing but trouble.”

The villager is far from coherent, but his approach is clearly motivated by deeper passion. Chrom suddenly feels a rush of guilt for this town; all the villages should have a positive association with Ylisstol, its leader, and his militia. He stands— far less gracefully than Frederick, but he still makes it up onto his own two feet— and faces the drunkard. “I don’t want to bring unwelcome attention to this town, so if it’s what you wish, we’ll leave.”

Gaius and Henry get up too, the latter still holding his huge glass mug of darkness. Frederick stays frozen in place even as Chrom moves away. The villager laughs at his small victory, but it’s clear he wants their attention more than he wants them out of his home. He snarls at Chrom’s back, “That’s it? I guess it’s fucking true what they say about our beloved royal family, then. You really are just a bunch of cowards!”

Thanks to the liquor, the deeper meaning behind the drunken insult doesn’t sink in right away— he’s been called worse things. But then Chrom pieces it together, and his heart breaks a little. It shouldn’t affect him, but to think about citizens of the halidom viewing Emmeryn’s final act as weakness...

He turns around just in time to see Frederick throw a punch right into the man’s jaw. All hell breaks loose.

The drunken villager reels back, falling into a table and knocking over several plates of hot food. Chrom winces; it looks like Gaius was right about them paying more than their fair share. Others start to gather around, including some men similar to the tall drunkard who instigated the fight. The innkeeper is yelling something futile, trying to keep the peace, and Frederick turns to look at Chrom. “Milord—”

He doesn’t have time to finish the title before someone hits him in the side, distracting him thoroughly. Fortunately for Frederick, he’s wearing his armour, and he’s also a trained veteran of battle. Unfortunately for everyone else who quickly joins the brawl… well, at least Chrom doesn’t have to worry about Frederick losing.

“ _Out!”_ howls the barkeep over the din, more pleading than demanding. The small crowd gathered around them begins to push, until the fight spills out onto the street. When the clean air hits them, it becomes easier to think, and Chrom remembers to breathe. Frederick doesn’t decapitate anyone, and nobody seems to be proving a real challenge to him. The most damage he does is lifting one ruffian by the collar of his shirt and tossing him into a pile of crates, but that’s more property damage than anything else. Which is… still not good. Chrom swallows the smile off of his face, and dives into the fray to help his retainer.

“Yeah! Now Freddy’s letting his hair down too!” cheers Gaius, before taking the lollipop out of his mouth and dodging a glass thrown in his direction. It shatters on the ground behind him, and the sound is punctuated by Henry cackling from somewhere out of sight.

“Shut up,” Frederick yells back, having completely lost his decorum. It’s a sight to behold, really. The barmaid Chrom is trying to soothe takes advantage of his moment of distraction, and she kicks him in the leg. That seems like exceptionally bad service and no way to treat a prince, and rude to boot. “We’re _leaving!"_

Frederick marches through the crowd as though his assailants are simply tall grass. He scoops up Chrom into his arms without much effort. Then Chrom stops keeping track of what’s happening or where anyone else is, because Frederick is carrying him in his arms. It’s hardly the most romantic of scenarios, but the festival decorations are still beautiful as they fly by, and the music in the air works with the liquor in his blood to make Chrom’s heart feel very funny.

That feeling stays with him long after they’ve left the festival, and long after Frederick sets him down. He blames his inability to walk on that dizziness, trying to explain to Gaius that no, he’s _not_ drunk, it’s just that there’s something the matter with his stomach.

“You’re gonna be sick? Ah, crivens, he’s gonna be sick.” Gaius jumps away and Chrom wavers at the lack of touch, his knees threatening to buckle.

“No,” he insists, frustrated. “I’m not going to be sick, I’m just… I feel so funny. It… maybe it was the mead.”

“Sure, or any of the other suspects,” the thief snarks. But he returns to Chrom’s side without protest or even wariness that the prince might be sick. Gaius’ arm encircles his waist again, and Chrom leans around his shoulder in turn. This produces an oddly thoughtful hum from Gaius. “This is all my fault, Blue, so don’t you run around blaming yourself tomorrow, alright?”

“Huh?” Chrom struggles to find footing both on the dark ground and in the confusing conversation. “I’m not— I’m not blaming myself; we didn’t start that fight.”

“Exactly,” Gaius sings. His shoulder bumps against Chrom’s chest as they move, trying to stay upright and in-step. They get it eventually. “Try and remember that tomorrow morning when your head feels like you died and woke up a Risen.”

“I’ll remind him,” Frederick says, and both Chrom and Gaius turn to look at him. He looks more than a little embarrassed now that the adrenaline of his barfight is wearing off. Perched behind his head is Henry, riding on his shoulders with a delighted grin. “And yes, Gaius, this is all your fault.”

“But what a good story it’ll make,” Henry says, pinching Frederick’s cheek. Frederick’s humiliation multiplies until Chrom can see him faintly blush, and not just where Henry pinched him, either.

The sight is distracting enough that Chrom trips over his own feet, pulling Gaius down with him. Gaius is the first to laugh and Henry follows suit, and when Chrom looks back at Frederick, he sees him laughing too, gentle and without cruelty. In the dim moonlight, he catches a glimpse of Frederick smiling wide.

When Lon’qu knocks him flat on his back three times in a row, Chrom begins to wonder if he’d made a mistake by straying from his normal training with Stahl.

Stahl is still around, of course; he’s sparring next to them with Frederick. It’s been days since the summer festival but Chrom still feels the aftereffects of that night. His knee is so bruised that it hurts when touched on both sides, and he’s started developing these splitting, nauseating headaches every time he gets hit in the head. He’s pretty sure that shouldn’t be happening in practice swordplay at all, but he’s hardly going to criticize Lon’qu when he’s the one who keeps losing.

A hand enters his field of vision, and Chrom takes it, groaning. The myrmidon pulls him up to his feet easily and stares at him, seemingly a little perplexed. He doesn’t offer to stop though, or even ask if Chrom needs a break. “Again.”

Well, he’s standing, so he can still fight. “Yes,” Chrom nods, adjusting his grip on the training sword. The wood jerks right out of his hands when Lon’qu _tackles_ him without warning, and they roll on the ground together. “Naga’s— _ah,_ you—”

It’s hard to get the upper hand when Lon’qu is, for once, playing surprisingly dirty. He pushes Chrom into the dirt and reaches for his weapon, and Chrom only manages to knock the fake blade away an instant before Lon’qu has it at his throat. Then he rolls them over so that he’s pinning Lon’qu in place, suddenly desperate for a win. The training swords are too far for him to reach, though, and the warrior breaks Chrom’s hold on his wrists easily. They flip again, and once more, Chrom is flat on his back in the dirt. That’s the fourth time.

“Hell,” Chrom breathes, closing his eyes. Lon’qu’s hips and arms and legs all have him pinned to the ground, and thinking is a difficult task, let alone speaking. “You’re being somewhat rougher with me than usual,” he finally manages.

“I will not give you quarter unless you ask it of me.” Chrom’s eyes shoot open to meet Lon’qu’s gaze, serious as ever. He never noticed how handsome the swordsman was before now, but now it’s— he feels that awful twisting in his stomach again. Like butterflies. “I’ve watched you fight with the others, and I’ve heard from Vaike that you worry about your partners going easy on you. That won’t be a problem with me.”

Hearing that makes it a dozen times worse; Chrom suddenly feels dizzy, even grounded like this with a body atop him. Lon’qu climbs to his feet and gives Chrom a hand up again, but now there’s an uncertainty to his movements. Chrom realizes that he didn’t say anything in response, and he quickly blurts out, “Thank you. I mean, for—for noticing. It’s a childish fear, really; just as I trust the Shepherds not to go too far in our training, I should trust them not to go too easy.”

“Yes,” Lon’qu says, and smiles, which only makes him look even _more_ handsome. Chrom blinks. “If we keep training together, soon, you won’t have to worry about either.”

“Alright,” says Chrom. He steadies himself, grabbing his sword and assuming the proper stance. “Again, then.”

This time, he lands on top of Lon’qu. The swordsman smiles again from underneath Chrom, wooden blade almost-but-not-quite touching his neck. Chrom considers it one of his sweetest victories ever.

Now that he’s started to notice it, he notices it happening all the time. Chrom eats lunch with Stahl, same as always— except now, when Stahl reaches up to wipe his mouth dry with the back of his hand, or when he hands Chrom a slice of fruit and smiles, Chrom’s stomach is set aflutter with those dreadful butterflies.

He can’t think of another fitting description for the way they feel, like he’s holding a bird in his palms. The restlessness always lingers, too. Gaius comes up to him in the middle of a boring meeting with Flavia and sneaks him a piece of candy, so stealthily that nobody witnesses it except the pair of them. (Well, if Frederick witnesses it, he doesn’t say anything.)

Chrom accepts the gift but doesn’t eat it right away, too busy trying to quell his buzzing body. When he eats it later, alone in his room, he becomes overwhelmed by the sweetness and the thought of Gaius coming specifically to bring _him_ chocolate. The butterflies return.

Enough is enough. If he’s got some horrible indigestion connected to his anxiety then it would be better to know now, before the ‘butterflies’ make him sick, than to know too late. Chrom doesn’t want Lissa to worry, so he approaches Libra instead of one of their more traditional healers. He asks for a check-up, telling the monk he’s worried he might soon fall ill.

Libra does his work carefully, and slowly, and without touching Chrom at all. He doesn’t protest— that might make this whole thing stranger, and he doesn’t want to ask Libra to do anything he’s uncomfortable with. So he lifts his ankles when he’s told to, and sticks out his tongue at the right time, feeling only a little bit silly.

“It’s not simple vertigo, is it?” asks Libra, once Chrom has told him of his symptoms. “By which I mean, do you have trouble staying upright?”

“No, it feels…” Chrom kneads his hands in the air by his abdomen, unable to articulate properly. The monk watches him patiently. “It’s not that kind of nausea, it feels more like… I mean, I do feel light-headed sometimes because of it. It’s not painful, it’s only distracting, and I don’t know what to _do_ about it.”

“Hmm.” Libra sits, facing Chrom. “Have you considered that it might just be nerves? Some people get more anxious than others. I’m not trying to diagnose your mental state, but if you get feelings of panic—”

“I do,” the prince blurts out. “Um, I do, so I know that this— this isn’t that. I’m not panicking about it, either. I just want to fix it before it gets worse.”

“Well, there are no signs that you’re getting sick,” Libra says. He opens a book, tracing his finger down the page. “If you’re worried, there are better healers than I, who are more experienced, but… I really don’t think you need to overly worry about this, Prince Chrom. You’re in great physical shape.”

“Thank you,” Chrom replies softly, embarrassed, and then he starts to feel that same nervous restlessness. His phantom butterflies have returned. He’s about to tell Libra when he thinks about the compliment, and he _realizes_. And after that, everything becomes so much clearer.

Any minute now, they should stumble upon their destination. The clouds above their heads threaten rain in the next few hours, but hopefully they will have returned to Ylisstol by then. And the other threat is running into enemies, of which they have many; taking only himself and one other on a day’s journey would not be Chrom’s usual tactic.

But he, of course, is not the tactician. Robin is, which means that Robin gets to decide when they go looking for interesting things like this. He was vague about what exactly awaits them at their destination, but Chrom trusts Robin. For now, the skies are clear and the day is pleasant. Chrom doesn’t protest.

He didn’t protest when Robin asked him to go either. The tactician showed up outside his room with a map of the area and a pack full of food, and Chrom had left without thinking much of it. Going on horseback would have been a smarter option, but Chrom doesn’t mind a long march. (Also, he’s horrendously bad with horses, and that’s not something that Robin needs to witness now or ever.)

So they walk, and Chrom’s anticipation grows with every step. Robin seems to know where they’re going; occasionally they stop by a signpost and frown, pulling out the map to check it. But there’s no big X circled on the map to denote where exactly they’re going, and after a while, Chrom feels like his patience is being tested.

“Robin,” he starts, haltingly.

“Yes?”

“How much longer until we reach our goal?”

“Oh, a good two hours more,” Robin hums.

Chrom tries not to frown, especially when Robin turns to look at him over their shoulder. “And what exactly is our goal?”

“You know, I was just thinking how funny it was that you didn’t ask,” the tactician comments. “I mean, we’ve been walking for a good hour already, and I didn’t ask you to prepare for a hike or anything. Do you really not have any doubts about me or my motives? I mean, I could be an evil twin posing as Robin, bringing you out here in the middle of nowhere to finish you off.”

The twinkle in Robin’s eyes makes Chrom laugh. “Firstly, I trust you implicitly, Robin. Or whoever you are. And secondly, if you tried it, I think I’d win.”

Rather than continuing to tease him, Robin smiles and ducks his head. “Implicitly, huh?”

“Since the very beginning,” Chrom says without hesitation. “You remember our first meeting, don’t you? I think about it often… From the first moment I laid eyes on you, I had no doubts. There was just something about you, that I…” He coughs, suddenly embarrassed. Robin is staring at him now. “Even though Frederick was so suspicious, I _knew_ I could trust you. I knew you were safe. And I mean, he was just jealous!”

The joke doesn’t fall flat, but Robin doesn’t laugh. They step towards Chrom, not bothering to hide their interest. “He was?”

“Well,” Chrom stammers, getting bashful again. The problem is, when he thinks about it… it’s true. Frederick had been jealous, and any extra subtext he could apply to the situation is probably accurate. He’s always been close with Frederick, and the other man has made his feelings clear a hundred times over the course of their friendship. Chrom failed to notice until the jar of hand salve appeared outside his door— that had been a first wake-up call.

Robin still waits for an answer, curious but patient. Chrom clears his throat. “I can’t speak for him.”

“Of course not,” replies Robin, in a tone that seems to suggest _'y_ _ou don’t have to’._ “I knew I could trust you too in that field. I mean, you were the first memory I had— you, and Lissa getting excited, and Freddy getting cranky.” They smile. “How could I not have trusted you?”

“That’s a good point,” Chrom says, a little awed by the confession anyway. “I hope I have continued to earn your trust, Robin.”

“You already know that you have,” Robin says. They’re standing close enough to take his hand in theirs, so they reach out and do so. Chrom stares at their intertwined hands, and then he beams at Robin, who smiles back. They begin to walk again, this time together— and then Chrom remembers what he’d nearly been too distracted to ask about.

“Hey, you didn’t answer! Where are we going?”

“Should be any minute now,” Robin says, and squeezes their palms together.

Ten minutes later, Chrom drops Robin’s hand and gasps. “Hang on a second! There’s no mission here at all, is there?!”

Robin raises both hands in surrender, already laughing. “Just a mission to get my captain to go on a long, leisurely walk! I’m sorry, Chrom; it was Freddy Bear’s idea, though, so you don’t need to only be mad at me.”

“I thought this ridiculous endeavour was over!” Chrom folds his arms, embarrassed. “I don’t have to be tricked into relaxing, Robin. If you want to spend the day walking with me, then you can just ask to do that!”

“Good,” their grin widens. “Next time I will.”

“Ugh.” Despite himself, Chrom has already forgiven them. He reaches to take their hand again and they look surprised, so he squeezes it tightly.

After a moment of silent reflection, Robin presses back against his grip, smiling. “Or next time, we can bring steeds along and travel further.”

“No, I’m quite fine with walking.”

“Oh, is that so? I’ve heard reports that you’re excellent on horseback, Chrom.”

“I suppose that came from… ‘ _Freddy Bear’,_ too?”

Robin snorts. “No, from Stahl. But please, gods, _please_ call him that again.”

“… It’s cute.”

“To his face. Please, please, please. I want nothing more than this.”

“This is what I get for waking strange men in fields,” Chrom laughs. “I get pulled into shenanigans like this.”

They walk together for another long and leisurely two hours, and they don’t gain any new intel or supplies or soldiers but Chrom doesn’t feel that he wasted the day at all.

The pain of his sister’s death fades with time. Their side loses others and gains new friends and allies in their stead. Chrom doesn’t know what’s coming next from Plegia, or Valm, or the gods themselves, but he takes things one day at a time and it’s easier. At first, he hates admitting it, since it feels like it cheapens Emmeryn’s sacrifice. Then time heals that selfishness too, and Chrom can be honest with himself.

The kingdom still struggles, as does its most trusted militia, but things are different now. They make camp one night in the middle of a mission to an abandoned ghost town. Chrom is certain it’s a waste of time but regardless of whether the ghosts taking up residence in the long-forgotten village are Risen or bandits or something worse, someone still needs to deal with them.

The air is close to freezing here, so nobody stays up to tend a bonfire or make idle chit-chat. His Shepherds retire to their tents early, and Chrom makes sure everyone has been fed and has whatever supplies they need to make it through the night.

His own tent is outfitted with the normal requisitions for Ylissean royalty, save some missing parts. His blanket and bedroll and pillow are there, but his extra supplies are all in Lissa’s tent. When she and Maribelle had begun sharing space more frequently, she’d mentioned not having enough room, and Chrom hadn’t thought twice about it.

An extra blanket would certainly be nice now. His teeth and jaw chatter, and he trembles under his blanket. Wearing a shirt would help, of course; but his uniform is stained with blood and sweat from the day’s travels, and he’s missing _that_ extra necessity too.

Chrom closes his eyes and thinks of hot things. Meat, roasting on a spit over an open fire. Hot cider warming every part of his body until even his toes curl. (Right now, he can hardly feel his toes.) The warm, hot sands of the desert, and the sun beating down on his back and frying his skin.

He thinks of putting his bloodstained uniform back on, or at least curling up under the cape. He thinks about going to the stables and stealing whatever saddle blanket Cherche gave her wyvern for the night.

His tent flap lifts and Chrom raises his head, frowning at what he thinks is the harsh, cold wind. His door blowing open is the last thing he needs. Except the wind is not there; a tall knight with brown hair and a sternly trained face is carrying a bedroll and blanket into Chrom’s tent. “Milord.”

“Frederick,” Chrom acknowledges him politely, and then when he realizes the obvious purpose of his visit, “ _no_ , Frederick. No. I will not allow you to come give me your blanket in some misplaced show of loyalty. The thought of you freezing alone in your tent on the hard ground will keep me up instead, so… just don’t even try it.”

“That is not what I came here for,” Frederick says. Chrom wishes he had a candle so that he might see the other man’s expressions; as if Frederick can read his mind, he approaches. He lays out his bedroll next to Chrom, and then throws his blanket over both their bodies. “I came here to warm your bed.”

“What,” Chrom very much does not squeak. Frederick is wearing a soft tunic and loose pants, and he curls around Chrom without being asked. “ _What._ Frederick, this is—”

“If you don’t want to freeze, and you don’t want me to freeze, then this is the best option,” his retainer tells him in a very matter-of-fact voice. He already sounds drowsy; his arm has gone slack underneath Chrom’s shoulders. “Propriety be damned,” he mumbles into the pillow.

“Propr— who _are_ you?!” Despite Chrom’s protests, he can’t help but move closer to Frederick, resting a cold palm over his chest. It’s just so warm and pleasant, and the proximity is making his heart light in that now familiar way. Surely, they can deal with Frederick’s dear propriety in the morning, and right now they can just rest.

Except, Frederick forgot to latch the tent flap properly, and something else blows in— this time, a tactician.

“Chrom, I’m sorry to bother you this late but I was— Oh,” Robin begins, and then falters. “Well, I see great minds think alike. Would it be alright if I came to lie down here? It’s just _so_ cold in my own tent.”

“Alright,” Chrom echoes mildly. Robin lays out their bedroll on Chrom’s other side, and before he can point out that they have access to fire magic, he’s sandwiched between Frederick and Robin. “This is… um. This is nice.”

“Mm,” Robin says, burrowing his face into Chrom’s neck without shame. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be ashamed about any of this. Frederick isn’t overly ashamed either. _Frederick_ , who would usually never do such comfortable and familiar things like sharing a bed with someone, not even his closest friend he’d known for years. Not even given the feelings they’ve both been dancing around lately.

But Chrom isn’t disappointed that Robin and Frederick aren’t making anything of this; they’ve simply inserted themselves into his life and now they expect him to adjust accordingly. That attitude suits both of them perfectly. Frederick’s devotion to Chrom is nothing new, and Robin has been making erratic choices like this since day one and always trusting Chrom to trust him. And every time, those choices turn out perfectly. They always win.

Now that the sharp cold seems worlds away Chrom finds it harder to think clearly, so he gives up on analyzing the situation. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, and that seems to reassure both Frederick and Robin, who press in tighter on either side.

Chrom remembers a night not so different from this one when he’d had a panic attack, losing his grip on himself. He had felt so alone then, and now that feels like it happened years and years ago to an entirely different person.

From then on, Chrom is an imperfect captain. He sleeps past the break of dawn some days, and the only rigorous schedule he clings to is one that makes time for his close friends. He spends hours on unforgivably trivial things like horrible storybook anthologies, and taking long walks for no reason, and kissing. Things that aren’t that trivial at all, really, not when tallied up at the end of everything. He grows closer to his team than ever before, and laughs and cries and loves with them. And they love him all the more for it. He eats meat and candy, and he drinks tea and mead, and again, he heals.


End file.
